


Hurts and Comforts

by Lavender_and_Vanilla



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anxiety, Disrespect, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Established Mystrade, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Sickfic, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-08-27 05:11:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16696066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_and_Vanilla/pseuds/Lavender_and_Vanilla
Summary: Everybody hurts sometimes, even Mycroft. Greg always seems to be there to ease the pain.For Antheas_Blackberry who won the bid for my 5 short works. She wanted hurt/comfort stories with Mycroft being the one hurting and Greg doing the comforting. Some of these may be angsty and others silly. I hope all of them are enjoyed.





	1. "Not because I own you."

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Antheas_Blackberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Antheas_Blackberry/gifts).



Mycroft dressed with great care. His suit was freshly cleaned and pressed. The pin stripes accentuated his height and long legs making him appear more imposing then he felt. The somber black indicated the seriousness with which he took this post Sherrinford debriefing. Inquisition, rather, Mycroft thought. He finished buttoning his shirt, then searched through his accessories. None of the cufflinks seemed right.

 

The shower turned off.

 

“Gregory, may I borrow your onyx cufflinks?” Mycroft called out.

 

“Sure.” Came the muffled reply from the en suite.

 

Mycroft went over to the other dresser. He frowned at the jumbled pile of men’s jewelry that lay at the bottom of a sandalwood box. He found one cufflink quickly, but its mate eluded him. Poking through the tangled mess he pulled out a gold chain threaded through a letter “G”. Mycroft paused. It wasn’t anything he’d seen Greg wear. The chain was merely gold plate and the block letter was not much better quality.

 

“Did you find them?”

 

Mycroft whirled to see Greg standing just behind. His grey hair sparkled with water droplets and a towel was wrapped low on his hips. “Well, one of them.”

 

Greg noted the necklace Mycroft was holding. “But you found that old thing.”  

He moved to stand next to Mycroft and rooted through the box. “Here you go.” He fished out the second cufflink. Greg smiled at Mycroft, but his lover simply blinked and looked down at the chain in his hand. The helpless feeling in Greg’s chest grew. “Here, let me.” Greg carefully fitted the links in place.

 

“I’ve never seen you wear this.” Mycroft remarked in an offhanded manner.

 

“Well you wouldn’t. It’s meant to be worn by your partner. I bought when I was still in school to give to my girlfriend at the time.” Greg looked up from his task. “She dumped me before I could give it to her.”

 

“Oh.” Mycroft felt chagrined to have opened an old wound.

 

Greg shrugged. “It was a long time ago and I’ve definitely moved on.”

 

Greg finished his task and gently took the chain from Mycroft’s hand. He gazed at Mycroft considering. His partner radiated anxiety. There was a fine tremor in his hands and his eyes were glassy. “I wish I could be there with you love.”

 

Mycroft grimaced. “I wish you could too.”

 

Greg reached up and cupped Mycroft’s cheek, pulling the other man in for a kiss. As they parted Greg had a thought.

 

“Would you like to wear this?” He held up the chain. “I know it’s cheap and…”

 

“Yes.” There was a note of desperation in Mycroft’s voice that startled both of them. “I… I would like that… very much,” Mycroft murmured. Greg nodded. Mycroft bent his head and Greg fastened the necklace around Mycroft’s neck, tucking it under the shirt.

 

“Not because I own you.” Greg wanted to clarify. He rested his hand over the letter as it lay under Mycroft’s clothes.

 

“But because you know me, better than anyone else.” Mycroft covered Greg’s hand with his own. He felt more centered somehow. The small token gave him a spark of hope. “Thank you.”


	2. "Not without you."

Days of getting up just before dawn he’d hoped he would be able to sleep tonight. But his mind just kept whirling. Every hour he awoke with a new thought. It was going to another miserable night’s sleep, Greg feared.

 

Mycroft mumbled in his sleep.

 

Greg glanced over at his husband. A crease had formed between Mycroft’s eyebrows and he shook his head. “No,” he said clearly.

 

“It’s alright love.” Greg reached over to stroke Mycroft’s shoulder.

 

Mycroft’s expression crumpled into a portrait of grief. A small sob escaped. Mycroft mumbled again, but Greg could only make out a few words, something about leaving and Greg. More fretful sobs pushed their way out.

 

“I’m right here,” Greg murmured. He carefully gathered Mycroft into his arms. “I’m not going anywhere. Not without you.” Mycroft sighed and rested against Greg’s chest. Greg gently brushed the tears from Mycroft’s cheeks. Greg smiled as Mycroft rubbed his face into Greg’s chest hair and crunched his nose up against Greg’s chest. Then Mycroft’s breathing settled into a slow steady rhythm.

 

The heavy weight on his chest and slow, soft snores soothed Greg’s racing mind. He focused instead on the man in his embrace and soon he too drifted into a deep sleep.


	3. "Oh, is he with you?"

Not that Greg wasn’t happy to see his partner but the last place he expected to find Mycroft was sitting on the stairs leading up to 221B Baker Street. With his long legs stretched out in front of him, Mycroft was scowling at his mobile and sending texts.

 

“Mycroft, what’re you doing?”

 

Mycroft startled and nearly dropped his mobile. “Oh… I was, ah… waiting for Sherlock.” He stood and shook the creases out of his trousers.

 

“Why didn’t you just have Mrs. Hudson let you in?” Greg moved to knock on the landlady’s door.

 

“She refused,” Mycroft mumbled. His cheeks sported bright pink spots and twitched with suppressed irritation.

 

Greg stopped himself, confused. “She, what?”

 

“She refused.” Mycroft snapped. “Mrs. Hudson refused me entry to my brother’s flat and told me I could sit here until he returned. I was in the process of trying to contact him to see how much longer I’d have to wait, but he won’t answer.”

 

Greg frowned. “Well, that’s not right.” Mycroft shrugged and avoided Greg’s gaze. “Right, let’s sort this.” Before Mycroft could protest. Greg was knocking on Mrs. Hudson’s door.

 

“Oh, hello Greg.” Mrs. Hudson cheerfully greeted him.

 

“Hello Mrs. H. Sherlock’s not in, you think you could let Mycroft and me in to wait?”

 

“Oh, is he with you? Then I suppose that would be alright.” She plucked the keys from the hook beside the door.

 

“Mrs. H, did Sherlock tell you not to let Mycroft in?”

 

“No. But I can’t just let anyone in my tenant’s flat.” She gave Mycroft a hard look. “Sherlock knows so many unsavory people. You, though, are always welcome being his friend and a police officer.” She beamed at Greg.

 

Greg did not smile back. “Mycroft is Sherlock’s brother. He is a minor official…” Mrs. H snorted. “Of Her Majesty’s Government. He’s paid the rent on this flat for years. He’s saved your life.” Greg reached back and took Mycroft’s hand. “He’s my partner. And he’s _always_ with me. So unless you hear specifically from Sherlock not to let in his brother, I don’t want to hear that you’ve left him to sit on the step.”

 

Mrs. Hudson stood very still her mouth agape as she absorbed the rebuke. Her eyes darted from Greg’s stormy countenance to Mycroft’s pleasantly bland expression. “Oh, well, in that case, I’ll just pop up and open the door.” She slipped past the two men and up the steps.

 

“Thank you, Gregory,” Mycroft murmured. “You didn’t need to do that. I fear you may have damaged your relationship with Mrs. Hudson.”

 

Greg huffed. “She doesn’t have to like you, but she can at least respect you. And if she can’t do that, then I don’t have much use for any relationship with her.” He squeezed Mycroft’s hand. “C’mon let’s see if we can make a cuppa while we wait.”


	4. “I’m not beautiful.”

Greg could tell something was wrong at dinner. Mycroft ate his salad but left most of his main meal on his plate. He all but ignored the glass of wine, opting to drink only water.

 

“Will you be working this evening?” Greg asked as he dumped the food in the trash and the wine down the drain.

 

“Just a few briefs to review. It shouldn’t take long.”

 

“Would like to have afters while we catch up on Doctor Who?” Greg asked later that evening when Mycroft was done with his briefs.

 

“No thank you. I’m still full from dinner. Just a cup of tea, please.”

 

As they readied for bed Mycroft avoided the mirror and hurriedly changed in to pajamas including the top. Greg frowned. They had stopped wearing shirts to bed for the most part.

 

“Are you cold, love?” Greg climbed into bed and curled around Mycroft. His hand strayed up under the shirt to stroke his lover’s soft belly.

 

“A bit.” Mycroft moved Greg’s hand away from his stomach and held it to his chest.

 

“Mycroft?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Did you see your mum today?”

 

“Yes.” Mycroft rolled over to face Greg. “My parents, Sherlock and I met for lunch.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Do you?”

 

“Yes.” Greg kissed Mycroft tenderly.

 

Mycroft hesitantly returned the kiss. Greg focused on the kiss, coaxing a small moan from his partner. His hands slid under the pajama top.

 

Mycroft shivered as his skin was stroked and caressed. “Greg…” Mycroft mumbled between kisses.

 

“Let me touch you beautiful.”

 

“I’m not beautiful.”

 

“Mm… you are if I say you are.” Greg rolled Mycroft onto his back and preceded to demonstrate just how beautiful he thought his partner was.

 

Later in the night Mycroft, feeling satisfied and buoyant, watched as Greg drifted off to sleep. Smiling as Greg snuggled against his chest Mycroft murmured, “I think you’re beautiful too.”


	5. “I’m dying.”

* I’m dying. –MH *

 

* Finally admitting you’ve caught cold? –GL *

 

* It’s not a cold. It’s much worse. –MH *

 

* Funny, all that sneezing and snffling this morning sounded like you've a cold. --GL *

* * *

 

From the doorway Greg watched Mycroft exit the black sedan and march purposefully up the walk. The car pulled away and Greg smiled at Mycroft as he took the last few steps into their home. Greg shut the door behind and turned to greet his partner.

 

“How are you—“ Mycroft flinging himself into Greg’s arms cut off the question. “Feeling?”

 

“I’m dying.” He croaked, burying his face in the crook of Greg’s neck.

 

“Dying?” Greg held Mycroft close as he choked back the urge to burst out laughing. “Don’t you think that’s a bit of an exaggeration love?”

 

Mycroft sniffled thickly and shook his head. “No, it’s not.”

 

“C’mon.” Greg gently disengaged himself. “Let’s get your coat off and get you comfortable.”

 

Mycroft reluctantly let go of Greg. “Comfortable?” He let Greg pull his coat off and hang it up. “How is that possible when you feel so congested, yet your nose runs continuously?”

 

Greg shrugged and took Mycroft’s arm leading him towards their bedroom. “Perhaps a hot bath will help your cold.”

 

“It’s not…” Mycroft suddenly halted. His breath came in short gasps and he pulled his much-used handkerchief from his pocket. His face scrunched in expectation. Then relaxed. “Bugger!”

 

“Sorry, love. Better luck next time.” Greg tugged Mycroft along. “Let’s get you in the bath.”

* * *

 

An hour later Greg had lost count of the blessings he’d given. The bath had definitely helped, so to speak.

 

“I’m dying.” Mycroft moaned from his seat on the sofa, wrapped in his robe and a blanket.

 

“You’re not dying, love. You just have a cold.” Greg replied as he set a bowl of hot soup down on the coffee table.

 

“You don’t know that. You aren’t a doctor.”

 

“Hmm… Let’s see… sore throat, headache, runny nose and—Bless you… Bless you again. Sneezing.” Greg moved the tissue box closer. “I’m pretty sure that’s a cold. But I could call John for confirmation if you insist.”

 

“No. He’ll tell Sherlock and who knows what he’ll try to demand of me in my weakened condition.”

 

“Maybe he’ll send you a get well card.”

 

Mycroft gave Greg a withering look over the tissues pressed to his face.

 

“Yeah, not likely.”

 

Mycroft sneezed, again.

 

“Bless you, love.”

* * *

 

“I’m dying.” Mycroft whimpered as he nudged Greg awake in the middle of the night. “Gregory, I’m truly dying.”

 

Greg rolled over. His eyes barely open. “Wha’ s’it My?” He grumbled.

 

“I’m so cold and my throat hurts.” Mycroft coughed dryly. “Ow. See?”

 

“Umm… okay.” Greg sat up. “I left a glass of water on your nightstand.”

 

“I drank it and my throat still hurts.” Mycroft sniffed and coughed again. “Ow.”

 

“Right.” Greg rubbed his face. “How about some Night Nurse then?”

 

“Do we have any?”

 

“Yep, picked some up on my way home… because I knew you had a cold.”

 

Mycroft scowled. Greg just smiled and kissed his partner’s cheek. Having fetched the medication and a fresh glass of water, Greg settled the shivering man against his chest.

* * *

 

“How’re you feeling this morning?” Greg greeted Mycroft as he strolled into the kitchen.

 

Mycroft sniffed and cleared his throat. “Tolerable.”

 

“So, not dying then?” Greg asked innocently, as he handed Mycroft a cup of tea.

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Such hyperbole Gregory.” He sipped his tea and then continued with a smile. “Really, it’s only a cold.”

 

FIN


End file.
